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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083720">the company one wishes to keep</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tragedyofthemithraeum'>tragedyofthemithraeum (orphan_account)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Christmas Eve, Confessions, Conversations, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:08:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tragedyofthemithraeum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes John away from the city on Christmas Eve.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the company one wishes to keep</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I know you told me not to ask again, but-"</p>
<p>"Then don't ask," said Sherlock. "Turn left on Palisády. Up here."</p>
<p>John sighed. To hell, it seemed, with any sort of itinerary, or at least disclosing one. Sherlock was adamant that his flatmate have no idea where the two of them were going. Of course, John wasn't nearly as clueless as Sherlock often made him out to be. He'd been observant enough to notice that they had passed into Slovakia about a half hour ago. That, however, was the extent of his knowledge. </p>
<p>The scenery was quite spectacular and vastly unfamiliar. One second, a ramshackle village sat tucked into the forest, and the next, a spectacular majesty of a castle loomed from a hillside, singing of the distant past. Quite a break from the din of London, and even for its vast simplicity, the landscape was almost monotonous - one soothing lullaby of a color scheme, a continuous expanse of… art.</p>
<p>What was even more strange and spectacular was the calmness of the man in the passenger seat. Sherlock sat with his legs crossed, his fingers pressing into his chin, and his eyes set on the road ahead. He held his phone in his hand, keeping the GPS screen concealed from John. How annoying. How hilarious. But how wonderful that he wasn't lost inside himself on a sofa or a hard floor, staring at the backs of his eyelids and drugged all the way up to heaven. How wonderful, even, that he wasn't even fidgeting; somehow he simply had no extra energy to exert. His shoulders and eyes were relaxed...</p>
<p>"Fuck!" hissed John as the side of the car scraped against a guard rail.</p>
<p>Sherlock turned to John and raised his eyebrows. "Distracted?"</p>
<p>"Shut up! Now they're gonna sue my arse at the rental company!"</p>
<p>Sherlock only smirked. <i>Infuriating.</i></p>
<p>"You get angry in cars, John," he observed. "Or is it just when I'm the passenger?"</p>
<p>John sighed again. "You know that's not it," he said. "I don't only tolerate you, you know. I enjoy your company."</p>
<p>Sherlock seemed to sober. His voice quieted. "That's... good to hear."</p>
<p>It was Sherlock's peculiarity, John reflected, that he could just about read the minds of anyone else except the man sitting right next to him. John often took it upon himself to ease Sherlock’s clear anxiety in not being able, for whatever reason, discern his flatmate’s intentions. </p>
<p>"Sherlock," he said, turning just enough to glance at the other man and his scrunched up eyes. "Look... wherever the hell it is you're taking me, I want you to have a good time, 'kay? It's Christmas Eve. And... know that I'm not just being dragged along. I came <i>voluntarily</i>, you prick." John rubbed at his eyes. "I meant prick in a good way."</p>
<p>Sherlock smiled for real.<br/><br/></p>
<hr/>
<p><br/><br/>It was a cottage. It sat on a hill overlooking a low valley, submerged in a sea of wild grasses and flowers rooting violently to reach the sun. A disorderly wall of stones lined a small path to the doorway, which Sherlock would surely have to stoop under. It was a relic of some wild, long-forgotten fairy tale.</p>
<p>"It's beautiful," was John's minimalistic description. He parked the car at the bottom of the hill, opened the door, and found himself blasted with a pleasantly cool wind. Sherlock took the extra measure of sweeping his scarf across his neck before hauling their two duffle bags up from the trunk. He tossed one to John. The two of them set off up the hill. </p>
<p>“I’ve always wanted to try a few days in isolation, away from the world,” said Sherlock idly as he pushed the front door open with a creak. Flakes of pale green paint fell onto his polished shoes. “Not that one can escape the world, of course, only that the ‘instantaneous gratification’ urban lifestyle can be avoided for some time…” </p>
<p>“You’re not quite in isolation,” John reminded him before Sherlock could trail off into thought. </p>
<p>Sherlock shook his head. “You are not like the rest of the world, John.”</p>
<p>“Hmph.”</p>
<p>To a layman, the age of the cottage was difficult to decipher. Crumbling stone formed the base of a woodstove in the central room, but the wood-trimmed walls seemed sturdy and somehow modern.</p>
<p>“Recently painted,” Sherlock said. John looked up in surprise - surprise which only lasted about a second.  “Overall, it dates back at least a century, perhaps one hundred and ten years. That library room on the side was added within the past twenty years. The ceiling support beams, I believe, will soon collapse, but we don’t need to worry.”</p>
<p>Mere courtesy led John to assume that the detective had done no previous research on the place. </p>
<p>“I’d like to say you closed your eyes, pointed at a map, and took me here,” he said.</p>
<p>“Close,” Sherlock answered. “I actually shot the map.”</p>
<p>“So dramatic.”</p>
<p>“What else am I for?” muttered Sherlock with a small smile. “In all seriousness, I wanted to escape, so I did some research. An internet rabbit hole led me to this quaint place. A bit of a deviation from my typical style, but I like it.”</p>
<p>“So do I.” John grinned at him. “Thanks, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“My pleasure,” replied the detective, bowing and tipping an imaginary hat. “Want to come outside and look for bees?”</p>
<p>John blinked for a moment, then raised his eyebrows. </p>
<p>“It’s winter. There aren’t any bees.”</p>
<p>Sherlock frowned. “Alas, I spoke in a moment of childlike hope. Come outside with me.”</p>
<p>He threw his scarf over his shoulder and dashed out the door, greeted by the wind. It ruffled his dark hair and made it seem, if only for a flash, like he was flying. Sherlock scurried up to the very top of the hill. John came jogging after him, laughs stolen into the howling air. The sun made the grass sparkle and shimmer. There would be no White Christmas tomorrow.</p>
<p>John sat down besides Sherlock on the hilltop. Beyond them, past the valley, trees swayed in the wind. It was so very peaceful, so different; the mere thought of the river Thames made this little world feel like magic.</p>
<p>John stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands.</p>
<p>“What do you like so much about bees?” he asked, turning to Sherlock.</p>
<p>Sherlock looked off into the distance. “They are very unlike humans,” he said, voice smooth and calm. “They’re civilized and efficient. I find it fascinating that they create entire societies in a space smaller than our bodies.”</p>
<p>Sherlock went quiet and kept on looking outwards. It gave John a moment to think. Fascinating, how Sherlock found 95% of the human population overwhelmingly <i>boring</i>, yet he became animated at the idea of such a small creature… why had Sherlock brought him here? Escaping the world was a very open reason. To escape the rest of the world with only one other person was dedication, compassion, affection. Time for a moment of truth. In this exact present, on the hilltop, in Sherlock’s company, John was as content as he could possibly be. And so was Sherlock. Time for a moment of truth - John didn’t have a family anymore and Sherlock had a dysfunctional one. They were alone until one whisked away the other into a wilderness haven… shit. Fuck. <i>What does love feel like, Watson? Do you really even know?</i></p>
<p>“Sherlock,” said John, raising his head, only to find that Sherlock had returned to the cottage.<br/><br/></p>
<hr/>
<p><br/><br/>The fire filled the central sitting room with heat and dim light. Staring into it transported the mind to distant galaxies. No Christmas tree this year, but neither John nor Sherlock felt it necessary. In fact, Sherlock found the entire holiday ridiculous, but nevertheless John usually persuaded him to join in the typical traditions. </p>
<p>It felt like Christmas Eve. That strange and distinctive glow permeated the atmosphere. But it was also quiet, too quiet, as Sherlock tucked himself into an armchair and John sat on the sofa. Sherlock had seen John’s face and <i>known</i>, because that was what Sherlock did. One’s conflictions were an open book, sometimes even John’s. </p>
<p>Sherlock stared into the fire and John stared at his own knees, until the silence at last absolutely had to be broken.</p>
<p>“Why did you bring me here, Sherlock?”</p>
<p>It was a while before he responded. The fire grew still dimmer.</p>
<p>“You want the personal reason, not the surface-level scrapings,” he said, which was true. “Indirectly ask and thou shalt receive.”</p>
<p>Sherlock shifted in his armchair a bit before continuing. </p>
<p>“You are the only one I could possibly take. I do not want to be alone and I don’t want to leave you alone. Neither of us care about anyone else more than each other; this is an observable fact. Clearly, you realized this earlier. I am often painfully unaware of the reach of your own affection, and thus painfully aware of my own in contrast. I… brought you here…”</p>
<p>Sherlock faltered, blinking and sucking in his lips to try and fill the empty time. But John filled it for him.</p>
<p>“I think,” he said into the darkness, “that the reach of my own affection has been sitting under my arse for quite some time. I never wanted normalcy or any social-ritual-initiated relationship. I’m… a fucking idiot, is what I am. Tell me, Sherlock, do you love me?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>John stood up and sidled over to the armchair, his heart pumping, threatening to burst from his chest. <i>Moment of truth</i>. He leaned down and cupped Sherlock’s face. He pressed a kiss to his forehead. Sherlock shivered.</p>
<p>“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” said John. “Now. I’m going to kiss you for real and see how much we both like it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Helloooo lovely readers, thank you for absorbing my small creation! Written on a Monday December night when I was feeling Christmasy vibes and *not* feeling entirely detached from the concept of romance. Such is life. I sincerely hope you enjoyed.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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